My father-in-law didn’t have a pension. I took care of him for twelve years as if he were my own father… and before he died, he left me a torn pillow, whispering: “It’s for you, Mary.” No one in the house understood why he gave it to me… until that very night when I felt something hard hidden inside.
It was hard. Small. And it was hidden deep at the bottom. I slipped my fingers in more carefully, pushing aside the matted down and the old fabric that scratched like burlap. Outside, on the porch, the shadows of the wake still lingered: two plastic chairs pushed against the wall, a bucket with used cups,…
